Unmentionables
by Shoo-Shoo Amelia
Summary: These must have been the underwear that Spain wore when he did all that bullfighting business because, bon Dieu, France had seen the pants that Spain wore and they were tight.


**A/N: Don't lie, you totally know France _would_ do something like this. I just couldn't get the picture out of my head so, well, it had to be written. That and I simply _adore _France/Spain. I think it's like the cutest thing ever. Nothing agaist Romano though. Well, maybe a little something against Romano but, eh. To each his own, right? So, happy reading.**

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France didn't suffer from kleptomania, not really. It wasn't like he had an excessive, overbearing, and obsessive need to steal things to calm the burning need to simply _steal _even when there wasn't any strong need for the item. He didn't do it without thinking and then wake up the next day and wonder: '_Mais, how did this arrive here?_' Non, non, not at all. He wasn't _compelled _to steal, it just sort of happened sometimes. France was attracted to beautiful things and sometimes when the blond nation saw things that he thought belonged in the Louvre, his hands would get a little carried away and somehow find their way into his pockets. It was a tad natural, actually.

He didn't steal lovers away and that, France was proud to say, was a great moral standing. Usually, he found himself fooling around with some other nation's lover and then, suddenly, the victim/lover would notice, with startling clarity, that France was most certainly not their partner and had no business secretly creeping into the aforementioned victim's bedroom. What could he say? Normally, France brought lovers together more than he tore them apart. Frankly, sometimes that annoyed him a bit.

Presently though, he was in the process of perhaps attempting to steal Spain away from Romano. For three hours now, he had been pumping Spain full of wine in hopes that the Spaniard would suddenly notice that, no, he wasn't in love with that silly Romano, or 'Lovi' as Spain insisted on cooing, and that he had always had a burning and infinite desire and, dare he even say it, _love_ for Big Brother France that burned brighter than the sun that poured over Spain in wonderful bounty. Of course, France had been pursuing this goal for such a long time that he knew exactly what to expect. Non, Spain would remain obtuse and be completely oblivious to any and _all _of France's advances. As was to be expected, Spain wouldn't even question _why_ France's hands were tickling at his chest. _Mais, telle est la vie d'un homme français!_

France yawned widely, one arm strategically going around Spain's shoulders—what a perfectly delightful and classic move, if France did say so himself,— the other going down to massage Spain's jean clad thigh seductively. France prepared himself mentally to use the "There's-An-Eyelash-On-Your-Beautiful-Cheek- Mon-Chéri-Let-Me-Get-It-Off-Your-Cheek-Via-My-Tongue-Down-Your-Throat" trick that he had cultivated many a year ago while trying to distract England on the battlefield. Needless to say, in France's experience, it didn't work very well for him due to the fact that it usually earned him a kick or punch to the crotch the left him doubled over in pain. So, bringing his finger up and looking in Spain's eyes—what a pretty shade of green, like Chartreuse or Absinthe– he leaned forward and—and the phone was ringing. France mentally jotted down 'phone' on the ever-expanding list of things that could effectively kill any sort of romantic mood.

"Ah, Francia, give me a moment to answer that." Spain and said and then he was off. Not quite defeated (because a Frenchman never gave in to defeat in Love), he sighed and languidly positioned himself on the couch to watch Spain walk away. As much as he didn't like to admit it, he would let Spain walk away from him however many times the Spaniard wanted because, _bon Dieu, _Spain looked good when he walked away. It was all in the swing and sway of those hips, those beautiful curvy hips and, _oh_, that ass. He had dreamed about doing horrid things to that ass in particular that would surely procure a hasty excommunication for the both of them if the pope ever learned of France's thoughts.

Still, France was nothing if not a lover of beauty and perhaps his favorite thing to look at was Spain's mouth. It presented France with the utmost pleasure and perfect interest to watch as Spain answered the phone, mouth moving and forming words in Spanish, a language the France hadn't ever really bothered with, that seemed almost pornographic at times. France's mounting desire had been strung out over quite a number of centuries, played out in the voluptuous rosy puff of Spain's lip. France had noticed all those years ago when they were barely out of their adolescence, that when Spain spoke, that beautiful upper lip pulled back sensually, exposing a welcoming inside and an exquisite amount of gum, the lips themselves slightly swollen. France now noticed, as Spain cheerily chattered away into the receiver, that he could almost tangibly imagine the impression of the lock those sinful lips could form on France's working bits and parts. In other words, gentlemen of the jury, Spain's mouth screamed blowjob; forgive his crudity.

Spain broke away from the conversation at hand and held up his nicely tanned finger, covering the receiver with his other hand and smiling in a terribly bashful fashion that made France want to rip his clothes off and ravish him until the Spaniard was sobbing in broken ecstasy.

"Could you give me a few seconds to take this call, por favor? It's my boss." Spain said by way of explanation, smiling prettily. France smiled smugly in return, getting up and making sure to stretch in the most salacious manner he could manage, which, really, was quite salaciously.

"It is no problem, mon chéri, but may I use your restroom?" France asked, raking a hand through his blond hair and smiling sensually, dragging his tongue across his lower lip in an attempt to get Spain to notice _his_ lips.

"Mmhm but, ah, I've remodeled a bit since the last time you were here. Go down the hallway and there will two rooms. The bathroom is the one on the left. You can't miss it, Francia." Spain chirped happily, pretty hands still covering the receiver so Spain's boss couldn't hear their conversation. France nodded and stretched his arms into the air, making sure that Spain caught a glimpse of his deliciously pale skin. Apparently though, the closest to a sexual feeling that France was able to bring forth in Spain was a sort of very keen affinity. It simply wasn't fair!

"Merci beaucoup, mon chéri Antonio. I will return shortly!" France announced, slinking his way down the hallway which, in truth, hadn't really changed much since the last time he had been here. Although, France noticed, that the sunny and cheery yellow was a nice touch. It made the rather large and intimidating hallway feel a little cozier. France also found that Spain had put up countless old portraits and photographs up; some that France couldn't even remember have posed for. There was one portrait in particular that stood out to France because it was simply himself and Spain, dressed in beautiful finery and it made France's toes curl pleasantly. France's nose wrinkled in distaste when he caught sight of a portrait of Romano, scowling fiercely. It seemed, and France wasn't particularly discouraged by this, that Romano had him outnumbered in the portrait/photograph department. For every one portrait or framed picture of France, there were three of Romano. Oh, well. France didn't worry because some time (perhaps even some time soon), Spain would notice that he was in love with France, not that pushy, whiny, and immature Romano.

Shrugging, he continued down the cheerful corridor until he reached the two separate ways. Which way had Spain said to go? Left? Right? He couldn't, for the life of his libido, remember. Luckily for France, the talented problem-solver that he was, there was a very simple and easy solution to this. France would just have to open both doors, now wouldn't he? Why, yes, yes he would. Smirking handsomely, France quietly opened the door to his right and found that it must have been Spain's (rather large) bedroom. Sighing dramatically, France closed the door. At least, he would have closed the door fully had something not caught his eye.

My, my, what was that? There were many things that could have caught France's eye. He could have had his attention attracted to the fact that Spain's bed was uniquely large, neatly made up, and looked quite like one of those pictures from a home décor catalogue. He, perhaps, could have noticed that there was a half full wicker laundry basket that had been placed lovingly on top of an ottoman. France also could have been distracted by the loud and almost tawdry red of Spain's walls. But, _non_, none of these things captured France's attention like the small article of clothing hanging coyly out of Spain's armoire.

Whatever it was, it was red. This didn't really surprise France because Spain owned a lot of red clothing. What really caught his eye about the article of clothing was the material. Just from looking at it, France knew that it was lace. It wasn't just _any_ sort of lace, though. This was the type of lace designers made lingerie out of.

France stepped into Spain's room—what a pretty abode,— and looked over his shoulder surreptitiously to make sure that Spain was still on the phone, blabbing away and completely oblivious that France was presently creeping about his room. Taking three wide strides toward the armoire, France took a firm hold of the lacey thing and tugged delicately, careful not to tear the sheer material of, well, whatever it was, France was about to find.

_Ah, bon! Ah, bon Dieu! _

It _was_ lingerie. It was a red, lacey cheeky. It was Spain's size; it had to be because nobody else other than Scarlet O'Hara and Spain would have been able to fit into these. _Oh, la la_! France had to bite his bottom lip to prevent himself from moaning as he imagined Spain in them. Little bolts of pleasure raced up and down his spine and seemed to concentrate themselves in his stomach, sending pleasant tingles from the tips of his toes to the roots of his impeccably groomed and styled hair. Holding them up, France turned the around and found that they had a little tomato on the left ass cheek. How cute and wasn't that nice a touch? France thought that it most certainly was. These must have been the underwear that Spain wore when he did all that bullfighting business because, _bon Dieu_, France had seen the pants that Spain wore and they were _tight_. They were the kind of pants that made circulation go out of style and amplified Spain's crotch.

Feeling the nice material under his fingers, France was suddenly struck by a burning, fiery, and overbearing need. It was such an intense need that if France didn't give in and succumb to it, he may have suddenly self-destructed and _died_. Dying wasn't good and it wasn't really at the top of France's to-do list. _Vraiment_, what was wrong about a little integument now and then? Nothing, that's what. France's grin almost split his face in half as he peeked over his shoulder once more to make sure there was no peering Spain, nor approaching footsteps.

In a surprisingly swift and seemingly practiced motion and with only the ease a practiced pervert could have, France balled the undergarment up and brought it to his nose. Massaging the soft material and savoring the freshly washed and clinging aroma of Spain's cologne, France took a long and almost frenzied sniff, inhaling deeply. He paused suddenly, taking the lingerie away from his nose.

Had—had he just _sniffed Spain's underwear_?

Slowly, another grin bloomed on France' face, making him look slightly crazed pedophile in a child-filled candy store.

He _had_!

Actions such as this always brought France's systems such delight and sweet agony, causing a slightly heady feeling to rush through his veins. France knew that he couldn't and, more importantly, _wouldn't_ be caught by Spain because the oblivious Spaniard was still chatting on the phone with this boss. He chuckled lowly, bringing the lacey thing up to his face to hide his Cheshire grin.

France was willing to bet all of Paris that Romano hadn't ever done anything like this and that single thought made France feel infinitely more powerful than the little Italian pest could ever even fathom. France ignored the common sense telling him that Romano had probably never done this because he and Spain actually _had _some sort of romantic _thing _going for them. France wasn't about to listen to the pessimistic voice of his conscious, so, he did what ever other sane Frenchman did.

He neatly folded the lacey cheeky and stuffed it into his pocket. He would be taking a more personal souvenir this time.

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**A/N: Swear to God, I can't concentrate on anything for too long. I get all weird and start being all crazy with my proof-reading. Yeah, so thanks for reading and, maybe, you can leave a review? Have a good day/night!**


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